


3 AM

by lunarlychallenged



Category: Newsies!: the Musical - Fierstein/Menken
Genre: Late Night Conversations, and i love Race, i just want to drink orange juice at 3 am
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-30
Updated: 2018-06-30
Packaged: 2019-05-31 05:46:53
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,249
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15113060
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lunarlychallenged/pseuds/lunarlychallenged
Summary: You don't like to make big decisions in the middle of the night, but you really wanted to hang out with Race.





	3 AM

In general, you knew that any decision made at three in the morning was a bad call. Don’t make a life changing choice in the middle of the night. Don’t send big texts. Don’t try to rope people into plans that you made when exhaustion or insomnia powered you. It was a bad idea, so you never really did it.

Tonight, however, was one of the nights when the world felt far too big. Your bedroom did not make everything feel cozy and safe. Your chest was unsettled and tight, and sleep was an elusive companion. You didn’t want to feel so alone, so you texted Race.

 

Y/N: you up?

Race: sleep is for the dead

Race: whats up

 

You didn’t really know what was up. Everything was up. Nothing was up. You just wanted to feel like there was somebody out there, who mattered to you and who you mattered to, and that person had always been and would always be Race.

Race was your best friend. He was The Friend. The one that, no matter who else came and went, you planned on keeping. You were college students now, connected by campus and classes and common friends. You would make sure to stay with him after, when you were finding careers and life partners and forever homes.

In a way, you supposed, that would make him your life partner. 

 

Y/N: we should rob a bank

Race: thats more of a two am thing

Y/N: we should go get orange juice

Race: k

 

 

There were some stores that belonged to the night, even though they were open during the day. When you and Race went out on middle--of-the-night-adventures, which was honestly more common than it should have been, your go-to night store was Speedway. Race met you outside your apartment, eyes bright in a way that you recognised.

“Rough night?”

He shrugged. “I’ve been working on that paper for History.”

Translation - I’ve slept 4 hours in the past three days, and I save my homework for nighttime so I don’t just lay in bed wishing I was asleep.

“It’s a good thing we’re getting orange juice, then,” you said. “That’s gotta be good for your brain.”

“Definitely. Maybe we should get chocolate. It releases endorphins.”

You liked walking at night. It was a little eerie, the way there weren’t many cars, but it was nice. “Do you even know what endorphins are?”

“Happy hormones,” he said vaguely. 

“I need some of those,” you agreed. “I need, like, a billion happy hormones. Tell me about your paper.”

Race’s voice soothed that anxiety in your chest. He talked about a ten page paper about the effects of slavery on America until you reached the bright lights of the gas station.

“I think we’ll get murdered in here,” you commented as you pushed the door open.

The fluorescents flickered, making his blond hair almost white. “We come here all the time. I think we’re safe.”

“This is a place where a horror movie would start.” You gestured to the aisles, the weary teen at the counter, the darkness outside. “If you don’t think a serial killer is staking us out, you’re delusional.”

He laughed. “Are we at the beginning of the movie, or the end?”

You looked thoughtfully at the drink selection. Should you get two small bottles of juice, or one big jug? 2 separate things, where you get a little? One big thing, where you have to put your mouth where Race’s was, and he probably hogs the whole thing?

You grabbed the jug.

“The beginning. Everybody is watching, knowing that we’re goners, but we have no idea.”

Race came up behind you with a handful of candy bars. “You are literally talking about getting murdered right now. You have every idea about it.”

You shrugged. “I don’t make the rules -”

“You only enforce them,” he finished. He shoved the candy into the pocket of your hoodie so he could pull out his wallet. He always insisted on paying for these excursions, saying that it was always for his benefit. At first, you tried to explain that these were for you, but he didn’t listen. He paid every time, so you stopped complaining. If it made him feel better, all power to him.

You stood outside while he paid. You didn’t like seeing the sleepy, zombie faces of night workers. Your phone buzzed with a text from Race.

 

Race: i think this guy is the serial killer

Y/N: i told you

Race: this is all your fault. we wouldnt be about to die if you didnt want orange juice

Y/N: sorry i wanted to spend time with you bb

Race: youll def be sorry later

 

You grinned at him when he came outside, bag in hand. “Ready to die?”

“Once I’ve had some chocolate,” he said. “Your place or mine?”

You considered. “Let’s just find a bench.”

The bench turned out to be outside a closed coffee shop. Maybe you would get in trouble for sitting there if a cop came, but it was a nice spot to share your bounty.

It was 4 AM. Better for big decisions, but not when neither of you had gotten any sleep.

“Alright,” he said thoughtfully. “Marry Spot, or marry Crutchie?”

“Crutchie,” you said immediately. “He makes that really good cake, you know the one?”

Race grinned. “For sure, for sure.” He took a big gulp of orange juice. You had been right; he was hogging it. “Crutchie or Jack?”

“Crutchie. Cake.” You snagged the juice. You knew that you couldn‘t taste Race on the bottle, but you liked to imagine that you could.

“Me or Crutchie?”

You choked a little on the juice, covering for yourself by popping in a few M&Ms. “You.”

Race waggled his eyebrows. “I’m better than cake?”

You shrugged. “There are two types of friends. You’re one kind, he’s the other.”

“What are the kinds of friends?”

You squirmed a little. 4 AM. Bad call. Don’t do it. “When I make a friend, I kinda know from the start if they’re friend-friends or friends I would date. It changes sometimes, but I always have some idea of it.”

You felt Race freeze, but his hand was steady as he rose a Butterfinger to his mouth. “Which one am I?”

Don’t do it. “Crutchie is a friend-friend. He just happens to make matrimony worthy cake.”

“And I’m a date-friend?”

You popped another few M&Ms, nervous. “Yep. Want more juice?”

Race put his candy down. “Really? You’d date me?”

“Of course I would,” you said with a little surprise. You had kind of thought that he knew. You thought that everybody knew. “You’re probably the only person I want to date.”

Race smiled at you, that manic glint to his eyes gone. He looked completely grounded. “I had no idea. I would have asked you out ages ago if I did.”

You didn’t know what to say. “Nice,” you croaked.

“You know,” he said cheerily, “if chocolate releases a billion endorphins, I’ll bet kissing releases a trillion.”

You opened your mouth to reply, but he leaned forward to catch the sound with his own. He tasted like candy and juice and a little bit of mint, probably from the peppermints he always sucked on while he did homework. Your hands traced the line of his jaw, and the world didn’t feel very big at all. It felt like the perfect size.


End file.
